


What lies beyond

by BurrrdBrainedInsomnia



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Character death but he comes back in about ten lines so eh?, Dark, Guilt, Horror, Jack Needs a Hug, Jack gets a hug, M/M, Murder, One character is way OOC but it's neither Pitch nor Jack, Sacrifice, cosmic horror, crack take on how Pitch rose to power, no really he's so done it's not even funny, shitty boss is shitty and Jack would like to quit thank you very much, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22379320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurrrdBrainedInsomnia/pseuds/BurrrdBrainedInsomnia
Summary: Slowly, at an agonizing pace, the crooked handle of the kitchens’ clock ticked the seconds by-a fourth, a fifth, going into a fiftieth before he again breathed proper. Still, outside the window, nothing but the fall of the pristine snow showed itself and so, the tense quiet was broken by Pitchs’ own exhausted sigh.Paranoia. Stress. Be it whatever and he would gladly blame it for the immediate urge to snatch close a knife to his worn-out person.
Relationships: Jack Frost/Pitch Black
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Let me in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing is fucking pretentious and I have zero regrets about that.
> 
> Also, I’m very well aware that I got multiple fics ongoing atm, but for the sake of my banged up mental health, I really need a distraction and uh… yeah, this is the distraction. Regardless, this will be relatively short, probably 5000 words or so.  
> Lastly, believe it or not, this story is loosely inspired by an insane experience that I had while living in an old house in Frederiksund, Denmark. It was wild and no, I will not elaborate (unless asked to. It’s a long story).
> 
> Aight, enjoy <3

With a sneaking yawn caught in his throat, Pitch flicked the switch to flood the small kitchen with harsh, unrelenting light, his amber eyes blurry, stumble unsure, as he proceeded into it in order to make himself tea. Moments passed, the flick of the kettle loud to his ears, as he raked slightly clammy hands down over the pale of his face and breathed deep in order to try and clear off the worst of the insistent drowsiness.

Alas, it did not work, and soon, the pressing yawn forced its way out instead. With one quick glance at the clock, the crooked handle seemed almost dismissed by its absurdity.

2.32 am.

_Bummer._

Groaning in its aftermath, and more than a little dazed, the man positioned himself by the rocky table close by, elbows settling against its edge to keep it in place, as he looked out over the frosted garden beyond the living rooms’ window. Here, a heavy layer of snow had come to cover the proud forms of the evergreen bushes, the cold of it evident, as it kept descending on in little flocks of silent, fluffy white.

If anything, it was a serene scene to behold.

Lame, the tea tasted as he sipped at it, barely bringing any real pleasure with such a short time passed, but it hardly mattered much. Regardless, and if only for the preservation of his already scalded tongue, Pitch _had_ put it down to cool for a moment being - the warm ceramic dormant for the time being, as it was left beside his resting palm.

Minutes passed like that, the tired feeling in his veins growing heavier yet, as Pitch waited for the tea to cool enough to be consumed. Then, seeming as if on instinct, the fingers still grazing the tables wooden surface jerked and tightened inwards, as his head likewise snapped towards the window again, from where a small noise had disturbed the else nocturnal peace.

A subtle _click_ it had sounded, like a claw scrapping over glass for the briefest of beats - a mere second in passing, nothing more, but it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck from the sheer feeling of _wrongness_ that it brought to his gut.

Tensely, with a strained ear and a curled fist, he waited, albeit for what exactly, he did not know. Slowly, at an agonizing pace, the crooked handle of the kitchens’ clock ticked the seconds by _\- a fourth, a fifth,_ going into a _fiftieth_ before he again breathed proper. Still, outside the window, nothing but the fall of the pristine snow showed itself and so, the tense quiet was broken by Pitchs’ own exhausted sigh.

_Paranoia. Stress. Be it whatever and he would gladly blame it for the immediate urge to snatch close a knife to his worn-out person._

Another little swig, this time much more careful than the first, was stolen from his mug, before its bottom once more came to rest on the table. Idly, Pitch stared at the light tendrils of steam rising, teeth grit, as the stare turned into a hardened glare. The feeling of off-ness had not gone away and this time, as the point of a sharp nail clawed for attention again, he knew it to be real.

With the blunt of his five own digging aggressive half-moons into his palm, he waited.

 _Seven,_ the crooked handle sounded _– eight, nine, ten-_

A third time it tapped, and as Pitchs’ amber eyes once more snapped to the window, they narrowed with acute suspicion. Light, the taps beyond his window remained, the fourth sounding more like a pebble, the smooth of a stone, or something equally small against the fragile of his window, than any wicked claws looking to tear his insides to shreds.

_Five, six, seven-_

Tap

_Three, four, five-_

Tap

_Two, three-_

_Tap Tap Tap_

Despite being able to see nothing amongst the secretive dark of the snow, _something - a specter, a ghoul, a ghost, a four-headed horse with silver tongues and flayed skin_ was there, that much _was_ a certainty.

A strange sensation crawled up Pitchs’ back by the fact - the knowledge that he was being watched obvious in its nature and promptly, he drained his poor excuse for tea.

_Ghosts and fairytales be damned. The tangible word was far more devastating than any invisible foe could ever be and truthfully, unique as it was, this encounter was hardly of interest to him._

The mug made a hollow _clack_ as he slammed it down on the table, making the surface rock on its unstable legs, before he got up, turned his back to the creeping chill of the window and stalked from the kitchen without any further glances towards it.

\--

Dawn came and kissed his weary eyelids, its glare forcefully, prematurely, rousing Pitch awake, to warm his straightened back with little bursts of too jolly sunlight – the rays accompanying him like a clinging spell, as he chewed through the mess of urgent paperwork, complaints and praises, which spilled out in between the useless chatter filtering through the stale air of the office.

Somewhere behind him, a mug shattered against the tiled floor along with its wielders untold dreams. Somewhere else, a cough rang out to cover up an else obvious lie to a pressing question and finally, _finally_ , the crooked handle rang for his merciful release.

Evening came. Dinner was eaten. A book was read and eventually, the dark cover of night descended around his small abode.

Alas, the second night proved to be just as interrupted as the previous.

-

_tap_

Amber eyes flew open, Pitch’ gaze blurry but acutely alert, as he strained his ears and waited. A handful of seconds passed, crawling into a near minute before-

_tap tap tap_

With a groan, Pitch pressed clenched knuckles to his cheek, his roused form protesting against the sudden movement, as he forced himself proper awake and out of bed. Irked, and more than a little annoyed, hands raked through his disheveled hair, schooling it into place as best as was possible, before he reached and climbed the first step of the stairs leading down - the descend slow; each step purposely light, as Pitch approached and eventually made it to the bottom.

_Tap Tap_

The peculiar cold of the kitchen hit him like a solid wall as he entered, the temperature nearing the point of freezing, causing the small hairs on his bare arms to stand on end, as Pitch remained stock-still - the man frozen in shock, as he stiffly stared ahead at the living rooms’ window. Here, frost ghosted over the glass, its details fine, delicate, as it spread and spiraled out over the plain and into light patterns of tiny, intricate designs. Puzzled, Pitch stared in reluctant awe at the swirl of one, as it slowly curled its way towards the chilled handle of the window and circled around it with obvious intend.

_Tap_

_Wrong_ , Pitch thought as he watched the cold dance and form on the other side of the window. Something was utterly and horribly wrong.

_Tap Tap_

The specter, ghoul and ghost all keened a shrill laugh in unison, their howls and cries for redemption piercing to his mind’s eye, as the horse with silver tongues and flayed skin bowed its heads to spill ragged filth and golden gore onto his already stained carpet.

_Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap_

A shiver ran down Pitch’ spine, hands clenching into fists at his sides, as he willed the visage away.

‘ _’Begone_.’’ Pitch rasped on a near growl, thin mouth set in a snarl, as the primal urge to flee fled in the wake of his wakening anger – the man jerking forwards on stern, secure steps, his hand swift, as it shot out and dragged the curtain in front with one fluent motion. ‘’Disappear. _You are unwelcome in this space.’’_

\--

Whomever the fool was that had turned the fan to max in the midst of winter should be banished immediately, and, if the light banter around him was anything to go by, the rest of his coworkers highly agreed on the notion.

-

Somehow, Pitch knew that this night would be different and, unable as he was to drift off and catch any sleep, the man had given in and stayed awake - the single lamp beside his bed lit, the light dim but enough, as his amber skimmed over the pages of the heavy, Germanic volume that he had chosen.

A boring tale really – the story using far too long in setting up a plot which, after the turned pages had climbed well past the hundred-mark, still seemed to go nowhere.

_tap_

With a brief glance at his phones cracked display, the time showed itself to be just around 3 am. The witching hour then. How fitting.

_tap tap tap_

Pitch hardly bothered to put a mark in the heavy dome before he put it away, the floor cool against his bare feet, as the man left for the stairs and took to the steps with a brisk pace, lest the four-headed horse get impatient.

_Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap_

The curtains were still drawn from the night before and without hesitation, Pitch tore them open. Idly, the man stared at the tainted image of what seemed an impossibility, as before him, he found the entirety of the glass to be frosted over - the layer so thick and clinging, that he could barely see the evergreen of the darkened garden beyond.

Softly, Pitch hummed to himself. The frost thawed, as he ran a finger over it, cold liquid clinging to the tip, as he inspected it close.

The cold was on the inside.

The tapping had stopped.

 _It_ , whatever that _it_ might be, was in his home.

Cold invaded his senses then, licking up his exposed back like a mock caress and promptly, Pitch felt his skin break out in gooseflesh, as a pair of infected, leaking eyes drilled into the back of his skull. Still, the man’s breath remained even and controlled, as he waited. It could have been a minute, could have been an hour, until it finally spoke.

‘ _’You're not afraid of me.’’_ A soft, subtle chime of a voice grated at his skin, choked in his throat, as it curled against his neck and made the hairs on the back of it stand on end. Something was visible in the white of the window just behind the man’s own reflection and with a subtle sigh, Pitch closed his eyes against the ludicrous visage.

‘’No.’’ Pitch answered honestly. ‘’Should I be?’’ He challenged. In return, he got what sounded like a mix between a huff and a laugh all wrapped up in velvet nails and the endless debts of cold, freezing rivers.

‘’Normally, people are.’’ It answered him back, and, as Pitch turned his head enough to look, stark blue eyes of crude ice and deep, eternal slumber greeted him. ‘’But,’’ it continued ‘’you are not quite normal.’’

With a hum, Pitch turned fully to face the four-headed horse that was not a horse at all and, as the gelid tips of fingers pressed to his chest, Pitch felt the chill that it brought easily sink through his skin and into his very bones. The touch tingled.

‘’What are you?’’ Pitch asked.

‘’Death.’’ It answered him back and in return, Pitch raised a brow, as he glanced the sprites light, delicate frame over.

‘’You hardly look the deal.’’

A small shrug was him offered back in return. ‘’Perhaps not.’’ It said.

Pitch knew that it was staring as hard as he was.

‘’Well.’’ The man said as he tilted his head at the not-horse. ‘’Have you come for me then?’’

A small, sad smile beamed up at him at that. ‘’No.’’ The spirit said. ‘’Not you.’’

‘’Then who?’’

‘’Your daughter.’’

Pitch grit his teeth to the point of it being painful at that, the man acutely aware, of the palm now firmly pressed to his chest. ‘’She is not here.’’ He said and below, the sad little smile morphed into a sly, attentive grin.

‘’I know.’’

‘’Then why come here?’’

The finger that tapped against his numb collarbone sported a claw now and idly, the man wondered if it had done so from the very beginning, or, if he had simply failed to notice it under the press of the supernatural image so carelessly presented before him. Gingerly, the sprites hand pressed harder against him, as it raised itself up onto its tiptoes, and, as it leaned up to purr in his ear, Pitch felt the ancient breath of winter curl playfully against his already chilled cheek.

‘’A soul for a soul.’’ It said, its freezing cheek burning against his own. ‘’Would you accept such a sacrifice?’’

The front door was firmly locked, the windows surrounding him just as so. Nothing was open, and yet, the sprite seemed unbothered by such aspects of physical barriers. Seraphina would not be safe- _could_ never be again against this weak imitation of a forgotten god currently grinning up at him.

Softly, Pitch sighed in defeat. ‘’Is there truly a choice in this?’’

‘’Depends on your sense of self-preservation.’’ It purred, just as Pitch settled a hand against the sprites lower back in order to steady it. ‘’But I will bring you no pain if you accept.’’ It said, and Pitch tasted mint and the press of curled up, dead winter leaves on his tongue, as the sting of lips grazed the corner of his mouth. ‘’I promise you so.’’

The man held the sprite at bay for a beat - ten pinpoints of cold combing through his dark, disheveled hair, digging into the back of his head, keeping him in place with subdued strength as well, before Pitch gave in and allowed for the other to kiss him deep.

Ice crept down his throat, chasing the breath from his constricting lungs, as a cold so invading that it blocked all immediate thought from his mind tingled down his spine, spread out over his scalp, as he suffocated slow. Through it all, the sprite held him fast, until the deed was done, and, with a shuddering hush, it released his collapsed form.

For moments, it stayed as it were, the sprites eyes dazed and tired, as it stared down with heavy, impassive guilt. Still, a soul for a soul. Pitch was long dead before he hit the ground - the solemn cold being the only sentient thing to linger behind in the vacant home of the newly deceased.

-

With the harsh gritting sound like a cat hissing up a ball, the sprites spine bowed, lids fluttering in the wake of obvious pain, as it spat a fine point of light out onto its hand.

The deed was done and the moon, year after year, would have its full, as it was them always demanded.

It was law.

It was eternal.

What the sprite did not account for however, was for that little pinpoint of light to shimmer and darken in its gelid palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna make a joke about Jack wanting to tap that but it seems inappropriate.  
> Also, I'm hella tired, any spelling mistakes will be corrected later, please bear with me.


	2. Let me stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cartwheels in with a fresh chapter stuffed safely under my arm* This is a bit rushed but real life is chaos right now and I can't focus on anything. Legit, last week, I had an entire day where i could barely recall any of the botanical names that I use on an else daily basis. I'm so fucking tired. I can't focus on long fics rn, srry.
> 
> Imma clear out any glaring grammarh-errors later, but for now, enjoy <3

‘’Well.’’ Pitch hummed, as he stared down at his own still corpse, the frozen, blue-tinted features far more plagued by the mark of time, than he could recall - his former frames’ cheeks sunken, dark patches under each eye to indicate poor sleep and a slight, continuous malnutrition. Supposedly, coffee had indeed not been a proper diet after all. ‘’I had not thought the phrase so literal in regards to the trading of a soul.’’ Pitch mused, as his semi-translucent hand went straight through the rocky surface of the table beside him.

In front, mere meters away, the not-horse were perched on the living room table, one leg tucked close to its gelid chest, cheek resting on its bony knee, as it stared stiffly in confusion at the equally puzzled Pitch. A tad irked by the turn of events, it shrugged, its voice low and gritting, as it gingerly shook its head. ‘’It's pretty rare that this happens but,’’ it hummed. ‘’I don’t… Quite…’’ It tried, before its transfixed gaze lowered to stare at Pitchs’ curious fingers, which had opted to ghost over and through the leaves of a green and purple houseplant. ‘ _’This is not possible_. It shouldn’t _be_ possible, _I do not have that kind of power to my name._ ’’ It hummed ever so softly, its ice widening, clearly lost, as it stared down at the still corpse, up to the lingering image of Pitch and then back down again _. ‘’I do not understand.’’_

A tad carelessly, Pitch hummed in acknowledgement, the new spirit quickly loosing interesting with the topic, as he continued to test the boundaries of his newfound, partly invisible shell. ‘’And yet,’’ the man wondered aloud, as he slid the tip of a finger up and through the soft buds of the crisp, white flowers that rested at the top of the houseplants stem ‘’so it is.’’

Beneath the leaves of the gentle green that Pitch was fiddling with, something began to move, a small tendril of pure black responding to his instinctive call, the dark of it following the seeking fingers closely, before jerking up and skittering out over the transparent parts of what should have been his skin. Acute with inquisitiveness, he watched as it danced within and then stretched itself from the inside out - the dark spreading like a gentle wave of thick, clogging ink over the expanse of his hand, pooling between the spaces of his fingers and up over the soft curves of his knuckles. Thickly, like a trail of smoke, it followed and bowed with the movement, as Pitch lifted his now black and bony hand up close to his face for further inspection.

In front of him, the not-horse tilted its head, as it too watched the black bend and twist into claws, the dark clinging to the sharp tips, as the skin itself lighted to a cool grey that snaked up both of his arms. Softly, the sprite shook its head _. ‘’How is this possible.’’_ It purred again and was promptly ignored.

With one last, impassive glance down at what he had once been, Pitch left both it, his former home and the bewildered spirit behind to trail out into the night - the shadows clinging to the outsides of the circular streetlights framing the road heeding him, enveloping him in darkness, as he passed.

\--

Despite his best efforts to ignore the little nuisance, the gelid spirits absence only lasted for a single night, before seemingly, effortlessly, it managed to track him down, its deep ice attentive, glowing a pale blue in the dark above, as it perched on top of whatever surface was available. Mostly, such would be the steel cages that littered about in the cave that Pitch had claimed for his own – its freezing fingers wrapped around the bars, a single leg tangled in the crooked metal for balance, as it watched his every move with peeked curiosity.

In the beginning, it would talk to him.

In the beginning, Pitch would ignore it.

Then, as their shared time together had climbed well into the passing of several months, seemingly out of desperation, softly, ever so softly, with a tone careful and guarded, it had jumped down from its perched position and whispered its first name to him. In return, Pitch had paused enough in his stride to stop and truly look at the other.

It was a forlorn sight that greeted him, the gelid spirit standing with its shoulders slumped, a pleading look on its face that Pitch did not yet understand.

Still, names had power. _Real_ power, that much of the old fairytales he did remember, but _this?_ This felt different somehow and for the briefest of beats, their eyes had locked – pained, freezing ice meeting rich, radiant gold in the near dark atop the bridge on which they stood. Then, the deep flow of ice had blinked, seemingly losing its nerve, as it cast its anxious cold to the crude stone below and the gold, once more disinterested, had turned to stride away.

He heard the spirit sigh in reluctant defeat. Then,

 _‘’Jack_ ,’’ it had whispered again into the stale air of the cave around the bridge after a near minute had passed. ‘’Jack _... Frost.’’_ It had said, the omission sounding like a dirty secret, a terrible, unbearable confession, as the unspoken power spread out like a tidal wave of pure cold - the full name vibrating, booming, brimming with potential, as it collided with and curled up against the startled, darker spirits’ back.

It had given Pitch quite a fit of confusion, the gold widening in awe and disbelief at the offering of use and command that pressed into his chest and settled itself right beside the spot of his own dark core.

But alas. The not-horse’ reason and cause for action mattered not.

A soft hum was all that was gifted in return, and, as the worded offer of the full name faded to a soft, light, fragile tingle on the tip of his tongue, Pitch stopped again in his stride to turn and cast a glance of gold and smirk and dreadful hunger over his shoulder.

‘ _’A careless one, are you not_?’’ He purred with intend, clawed hands settling behind his proud back, before he left the other to stand where he was. Still, an unnamed idea had wormed its way in – a ludicrous whisper of possibility and reason nagging at him loudly enough, that in the end, Pitch allowed for the lonely, little sprite to stay.

-

And so, Jack was left to keep a keen eye on him, his chilling ice ever watchful, as Pitch’ newfound features morphed into something sharp and monstrous. His teeth turned ragged, spine extending well beyond any sensible height to the point of it feeling a tad ridiculous. Still, with a little push, a little thought pressed towards wanted control and he could bend and break his own form as he pleased. Eventually, those physical boundaries could be stripped and broken as well - the velvet shadows filling the space that he left behind, slithering closely in his wake, or parting altogether, to allow him passage over lands and distances, which should else have taken months to travel.

\--

Jack still accompanied him wherever he went. As was for the cloudless night of the new moon that Pitch opted to leave the cover of their cave to walk the plains that lay beyond - the smaller spirit scouting about in the treetops, as Pitch stopped to breathe and bask in the slight warmth of the late spring air. The dark was clogging, perfect really, and with a hint of inspiration, the dark spirit extended a hand out to his side to invite it forth. Weaving a robe from the strands of the endless black was an easy task, barely taxing as had been in those first few days. As the material came together, getting tangible, gaining weight and fluttering down the expanse of his back in gentle waves of malice and pure, dreadful terror, Pitch smirked to himself.

He knew that he cut a frightening figure.

_Perfect. It was exactly as it should be._

Above, Jack sighed, as he, quite clearly bored, directed his ice towards the moonless sky and muttered something too low for Pitch to catch. The string of words sounded bothered, as annoyed, as it was downtrodden. What Pitch did however catch of the little worded tantrum were five, nearly hissed out words, the last grit out between tightly clenched teeth,

‘’-on a throne of _rot.’’_

Still, since the offering of his name, Pitch had done his best to ignore the spirits presence with any spoken word, until that too had become a bore. Now, clad in the essence of night and drunk with power that he did not quite understand, he found himself tempted to opt for engaging in light and pointless conversation with the smaller spirit.

A beat passed in silence as he weighed his options, the wind sweeping through the trees and making the fresh buds on their branches shudder in fright for the, albeit be it temporary, return of winters presence that perched and pouted amongst them.

Patient. Pitch was ever patient, but with months of nothing but bare rock and the rusty squeaks of steel against steel, his curiosity outweighed the last bits of his frayed caution. ‘’And to whom might such belong to?’’ He asked crisply.

Above, wide eyes snapped down in surprise, Jacks’ gaze wild, as he stared at the amused gold below. The cold spirit continued to stare, head tilting as though sensing for deceit, before carefully, as slow as it was deliberate, he moved his legs and crouched low on the branch that he was on. ‘’To whom does what belong to?’’ Jack asked with a face full of caution and below, Pitch scoffed a harsh noise.

‘’Do not play coy with me.’’

‘’I am not.’’

‘’Then tell me an honest answer to your babbling nonsense.’’

Patient. Jack was as patient as Pitch, that much had been made abundantly clear from the first three months that the darker of the two had ignored any taunting words or prods for attention and instead all but walked right through the other in return.

Still, whatever the answers to his faded string of words had entailed, while Jack wanted to indulge him, perhaps such was not possible in words, Pitch mused, as he watched winters presence bite his lip and narrow his ice in thought. Then, the cold spirits hands beckoned the chill to flow between them, killing the last life of the shivering buds in their wake as he grabbed the branch and shut his eyes tight.

Then, he shrugged a stiff shoulder and pointed to the cloudless sky above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER BUT NOT REALLY - Sorry Mim, I'm gonna let you be the good guy real soon, I promise.


	3. A penny for your thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I dunno what the hell I'm doing.
> 
> Enjoy <3

_‘’Do you still dream?’’_ Jack had asked one night, and, with a hum, the darker spirit had looked to the other, radiant gold tracing winters lounging form where it laid on its side, fist pressed to a soft, pale cheek, on one of the low walls of the cavern.

‘’I suppose.’’ Pitch had shortly answered him back on a curt and crisp note.

Then, a poignant beat had passed in the stale air between them, Jacks claws tabbing a quick tattoo against the crude rock, as slowly, ever patient, winter tilted his head at him and waited for a possible elaboration. With another little hum, Pitch decided to humor the mutual, not entirely unwelcome want for civil communication.

‘’I dream of eternity.’’ He finally offered back, as he craned his neck and gazed up at the ragged, uneven edges of the caves’ high ceiling. ‘’I dream of vast seas and endless skies full of thunderous clouds. Of fire. Of ice. Of hellish flames and burning swords and bodies strewn about in the streets.’’

Beside him, winter went quiet, breath caught in his throat, as his eyes widened for the briefest of beats. Like a shot, his claws stopped short with a _clack_ , as he curled and buried them into the harsh stone instead.

‘’And,’’ Jack, attentive ice now narrowed, started on a cold and careful note that did not quite display what he truly wanted to ask ‘’are they good visions? Do they feel righteous in their murderous nature?’’

Righteous.

_Did such a concept truly exist?_

‘’They are storms in brewing, Jack.’’ Pitch said as softly and slow as one would to a child. ‘’They are omens of mindless destruction.’’

‘’Destruction of what?’’

Pitch’ smirk was all teeth and ancient horrors, as he averted his gold from the ceiling to instead meet the transfixed blizzard beside him. ‘ _’Everything_.’’ He said with a small, dark chuckle, his breath along with his composure barely gained, before he continued in a merry tone. ‘’But I suspect that they are not my visions alone. They feel foreign somehow. Distant. Distorted. As if I am standing at the bottom of a wild river and looking up through the ripples of the waters disturbed body.’’

Winter bit at his lip, a pinched, slightly disturbed expression crossing his suspicious features, before he pressed on in a low, but determined tone. _‘’But are they good?’’_ He asked again with a slight urgency. ‘’Do they feel _right?’’_

At this, Pitch found his smile to be far gentler than he else would have thought possible, the shake of his head seeming wondrous by the design of the conversation that wanted to disguise itself as casual. ‘’Not entirely, no.’’ He admitted.

\--

Summer came and chased winters presence far into the darkest regions of their caves - his glowing ice only showing itself, once the glare of the sun had gone to rest well below the shimmering line of the horizon.

Still, even then, the heat was stifling, the air clammy, and more than once, Pitch had had to carry Jack further down, down below where no natural light would ever touch the crude walls of rock and dirt and treasonous paths. Here, the cold of the underground lake would cool winters body enough to allow him to regain consciousness. Here, his hazy ice would open up, head cradled in grey, bony hands, as he blinked up in startled confusion over having forcefully kissed the soil to then wake up submerged.

This time had been no different, and, as Jack finally stirred awake after hours in his too still state, Pitch lightly flicked his forehead in acute annoyance.

\--

‘’I saw a rabbit in the woods today.’’ Jack had thinly hissed out through his bleeding, cracked lips, his torn hands gesturing about, as he tried to mimic the movements of the little critter that he was describing. ‘’It was all fuzzy and brown and adorable.’’

Jacks skin, Pitch had quickly come to learn, when kissed by the heat of summer’s sunlight – or any intense heat at all really - would burst out into patches of angry bruises that slowly bled a deep, thick blue if exposed for too long.

‘’It didn’t see me though. I mean, none of the forests’ creatures ever do. _No one_ ever does really, not unless I make them. Not unless I force them to acknowledge me.’’ He said, as he coughed a wet, ragged sound that shook around the edges and made his chest constrict with obvious pain. ‘’Do the forest creatures ever see you?’’ He rasped, before having to stop for a short, heaving breath. _‘’Are you visible to them?’’_

Day by day, winters visage got increasingly worse. Truthfully, he should stay below, far removed from the glaring rays and safe by the waters cool. Still, no logic that Pitch had brought forth so far could convince Jack of it.

‘’You already know the answer to that.’’ Pitch idly answered, tone distracted, as his fingers worked the light, crude and impassive sand between his hands.

‘ _’Sorry_.’’ Jack replied, as his raised own fell limp at his side - his ice taking on a hint of delirium, as he sucked the warm air into his rattling lungs. ‘’I just-…’’ he managed, before his chest convulsed, dark-blue and purple throat arching, as his head lulled to the side ‘’I really want them to see me.’’

Pitch did not humor up an answer to that.

Softly, winter shut his eyes as he, by the looks of it, fought against another dizzy spell, which in turn had Pitch pausing in his tedious work. Frowning, the darker spirit reckoned that he had a good ten minutes before Jack would black out from the heat.

‘’It-… It did though. It did see me. It saw me.’’ Jack rambled on, the corners of his mouth splitting open, as a bitter smile stretched across his features. ‘’It was dying. You know?’’

A tad irked, Pitch sighed, as the unresponsive sand steadily ran through the spaces of his bony fingers.

‘’What was dying, Jack?’’ He asked, as he stole a glance towards the steadily bleeding spirit. For a moment, Jack did not answer, his bloody lips gently parted, features slack, and already, Pitch had started moving before he could think better of it. Gingerly, he picked the tepid spirit up and cradled him close and, as the temperature shifted to something cooler, the air less clammy this far down, Jack finally mustered up an answer.

‘’The rabbit.’’ He said with a slow, gurgling slur that bounced and echoed off the tight walls of the steep tunnel. ‘’The rabbit was dying.’’

Unceremoniously, Pitch threw winter into the lake.

\--

Autumn came and turned the gentle green surrounding their caves’ mouth into deep reds and crispy yellows. The air took on a cooler note and finally, Jack breathed without spitting up old, rotted blood.

Months passed.

Jack healed.

Then, one morning, as though feeling it in the air, winter climbed to the top of the caves impressive mount, spread his arms out wide and laughed an elated tune, as he called the chill to.

\--

Lanterns lit the frozen, winding streets of the sleepy, little town positioned near their home of rock and soil - the streets deserted of all life safe for a few stragglers, as Pitch calmly stalked across the slick, fading cobblestone.

The town was nice. It was also rapidly falling into decay.

It was not exactly an abandoned place, far from it really, but over the decades past, an idea of greater pays, greater purposes had spread, and one by one, the inhabitants had all seemed to sport the notion of needing to get out while there was still a tangible chance to do so. Not that Pitch could blame them in the slightest; his former self had attempted much the same, before winter came and ticked on his window.

Speaking of winter, Jack appeared to be having a blast above him – the sprite hooting and cackling to himself with glee, as he sprinted across the spines of the scattered houses and called up an ever-rising snowstorm that, by the looks of it, would soon claim the lives of anyone caught out in it.

Still. Winter never did claim a life that was not on purpose, and, this night would be no different. It was a fine line really, but Jack knew when to stop, knew when to call the chill back and let it rest, before it could tear the fine organics of the stragglers lungs around him to shreds.

Such a perfect little weapon he was and if there was one thing that Pitch knew with upmost certainty, it was that Jack did not want to be seen as such. Winter was not a tool. He was not a mindless monster, but someone, some _thing_ had claimed his name for its own and whatever sweet tunes it played, Jack would dance along to its rapid pace.

Still, winter would not tell him of it and Pitch had not asked.

-

The hints that something was wrong had been there, but vague as they were, Pitch had not bothered to decipher them.

In hindsight, the darker spirit should have seen it coming. Alas, he did not.

\--

Truly, Pitch had not realized how much Jack had become a part of his routine, before the sprite had upped and left his side. That day, seemingly any normal day under the early counts of winters reign, as evening had started to give way to night, Jack had suddenly gone very still on his spot on the low wall behind him.

Awfully still really. Suspiciously so, and for the first time since winter had invaded on his every waking hour, Pitch found that he was the one being ignored.

He hated it.

It made him itch.

Slowly, the night climbed its way towards dawn, the silence between them heavy, as the partly visible, silver edge of the swelling moon passed across the cloudless sky.

He felt it as well then. A subtle, gentle beat pulsing in the air that made his ears ring and his teeth ache. The beat had a name. It had a sense, and as Pitch strained to listen through the heavy fog that had settled over his mind and suffocated his thoughts, he heard it.

Purpose. The vague image of a forced purpose was in the air, but it was not his own and it was not him that it was calling for. With a sting of bothered curiosity tugging at his chest, Pitchs’ narrowed gold snapped to winters forlorn presence.

‘’Jack.’’

At the mention of his name, winters head jerked up but did not meet his eye, his claws taut, crushed into the rock of the wall on which he leaned against.

_‘’Jack.’’_

‘’I was not always alone you know.’’

The impassive grit of a dismissive tone gave Pitch pause, the quiet lingering, before Jacks defeated ice fell and stared at the ground at his feet instead. With a tired sigh, a dozen pebbles and ragged shards broke beneath his grip, as winters clutch twitched and turned in the crude stone.

Pitch ran the tip of his tongue over the back of his teeth. ‘’Did they leave?’’ He asked through the thick mud in his mind. ‘’Or did you tire of them?’’

Softly, slowly, the same bitter smile that had stretched across Jacks features when talking of the dying rabbit reappeared on his lip. ‘’Not quite.’’ He purred with a crushing heaviness.

‘’What, then?’’

Without meeting his gauging stare, winter looked to the thin sliver of the shimmering silver above. _‘’The rot ate them.’’_ He said on a thin voice that did not quite manage to stay even until the end. ‘’And if you would be so kind, stay inside tonight. Stay inside all week if need be.’’

‘’Because of what exactly?’’ Pitch challenged with a single raised brow, his gaze slightly irked, as winter absently scratched his claws across his own neck and made it bleed that awful, pale blue. ‘’What would happen if I did not?’’

In front, winter simply shrugged.

A near minute passed, the quiet stifling, pushing at Pitch’ chest in a way that he did not quite care to entertain. ‘’Jack?’’ He tried again and softly, winter hummed in pained acknowledgement. Then, Jack grit out a sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck, thoughtlessly smearing the horrid blue about in a way that could almost count as sheepish.

‘’I just… I would hate to see it eat you. I don’t _want_ it to eat you too. I don’t-…’’ Jack explained before trailing off. As he bit at his lip hard, a tiny patch of gentle blue gathered on the soft flesh.

‘’The rot?’’ Pitch asked in lieu of anything else to offer up. ‘’You fear that the rot would eat me?’’

Gingerly, with a gaze distant and distracted by something only he seemed to hear, winter nodded. ‘’So all in all. Stay inside. Yeah?’’ He asked and really, there was not much else Pitch could do but agree.

-

An hour later, Jack had slipped out into the night, his strides fast, wordless in their need to not be followed, and so, Pitch did not.

Still, the tunnels of their caves seemed all the more empty for it - the silence oppressive in a way that he had not accounted for and so, when Jack, a near quarter of a month later, had returned with an exhausted look cutting into his dulled, dazed ice, wordlessly, gratefully, Pitch had let him in.

-

It became a pattern after that. Jack would leave once a year for a single night or more. Usually, it was more, but always, he would leave when the first, true full moon of winter was about to rise.

Still, Pitch would let him leave.

Still, Pitch would let him in when he returned.

It was seven years into the routine when Jack came home after one of his yearly departures from their cave. Immediately, Pitch had noted his lack of rest. The slump in his beaten shoulders. The smear of crimson on his face and claws.

_The haunted look in his eye._

Something had happened. Something worse than usual and Jack was tired for it. Bone-crushingly worn.

Silently, without as much as a passing glance at his surroundings, Jack had shaken off the ice that clung to his clothes, the thick chunks of it clattering and splintering upon impact, as it shattered out over the crude rock on which he stumbled over. With fingers that shook, he climbed in and locked himself in one of the rusty cages, the sturdy beams creaking in protest, as winter encased it in a thick layer of ice - the message clear, _stay out_. Still, Pitch’ fingers had ghosted over the ragged edges of the gleaming sphere, the tips of his claws searching the gelid cocoon for well over a tenth minute, before they found a single hole, nearly big enough to fit his finger through. A pale, pulsing shadow touched the inside of it, inviting him to use it and easily, the dark spirit phased through the slender opening.

Inside, winter was dead asleep in its center and as Pitch hovered above his curled up form, he found that Jack had nearly frozen himself shut to the thing. Gingerly, he kneeled down beside him – instincts peeked, as he listened for the tunes of his fears.

Three in particular greeted him.

Death.

Decay.

_Eternity._

Grim as it was, it did little to quench Pitchs curiosity, but, a cage was a cage, and an unspoken wish for privacy was not one that he would intrude on beyond the need to check for the extend of the others bodily harm. None was found. The blue that marred his arms and legs and throat stemmed from winters own desperate grip and not from that of any physical, strangling hand and so, with a soft hum, Pitch left the gelid sprite as he was - disturbed, asleep and safe in his center of illusion.


End file.
